Snap
by underourfeet
Summary: He's never seen anything like it, not even in the war. Well, the last war. He still has a hard time accepting that he's in a whole new one now.


"Harry, mate, sorry to be so harsh, but who cares? Really? It's Snape."

"Ron," Hermione admonishes. She looks back to Harry. "Harry, it's not that we don't care, but he's dead. We know that. Why worry about this now?" She pauses, then continues hesitantly. "And even if you can save him, would you really want to? Maybe he's happier now, wherever he is."

Harry is speechless. He decides he doesn't know his friends at all. Or maybe they don't know him.

* * *

When he feels the fist crunch into his nose, he experiences a wave of something like relief. It's familiar, the hatred and fighting and anger. From the ground, he looks up into stormy grey eyes. So much emotion swirling in them he can't believe he's never noticed before.

"Why are you following me, Potter?" Malfoy snarls.

Trying to find a way to staunch the flow of blood, Harry stands. Malfoy pushes him down again. Harry gives up and answers, instead.

"Snape." Harry tears off the bottom of his shirt and presses it against his nose. "I can save him."

Malfoy's eyes first widen in surprise, then narrow in suspicion. He is silent. Harry can see he is waiting for an explanation. Harry obliges.

"I need help."

* * *

They steal a time-turner from the Ministry, aided by Harry's cloak and memories. Returning to the Department of Mysteries is hard, but everything is hard now, so Harry doesn't dwell too much.

Malfoy finds the potions he thinks they might need and Harry packs a bag. Rather like going camping, he thinks, except with someone I hate to save someone I used to loathe.

They travel back, hide out in the Shack until the war comes to Hogwarts. They relive Harry's nightmares, watching as Voldemort demands Harry give himself up to save the rest. Harry watches Malfoy watch his younger self as they confront Snape one last time.

The coast is clear and Gryffindor and Slytherin rush forward, stuffing bezoars down their Potions Professor's throat, knitting his skin back together, replenishing blood lost, restarting his heart. They are successful. Harry feels like he should be celebrating, but can feel nothing except exhaustion.

In the days following, Malfoy nurses their teacher back to health while Harry loses himself in memories. Of people dying (siriusremusfredcedrictonksdumbledoredobby), of himself dying. It all comes back to death. This is the only thing Harry is sure of in life.

They play a game of exploding snap when boredom threatens to drive them insane. Harry smiles and thinks of things other than the dead, and the shadows in Malfoy's eyes disappear when he laughs. It is almost like they are normal, like they weren't both tools of destruction on opposite sides of a bloody civil war. They are almost happy, and they play until their eyeslids are sliding shut and their heads nodding forward, and they sleep without dreams, for once.

It becomes a ritual, exploding snap. "Snap?" One of them would ask, and they deal out the cards. It relieves their boredom and keeps them from thinking too much. Malfoy seems to be just as much of a ghost these days as Harry is, living in the past, having no desire to move forward into the future. The card games are an escape, and Harry begins enjoying Malfoy's sarcasm and wit, and Malfoy finds himself smiling when he makes Harry laugh.

Eventually, Snape wakes. He makes it clear that he still hates Harry as much as ever. Harry doesn't mind. He knows where he stands with a Snape that hates him.

Snape never thanks him (them) for saving his life, but Harry never expected him to. Time catches up to itself, and before they know it they've reached the time they left. Snape has nothing to say to him except "Goodbye", but Malfoy puts out a hand and Harry shakes it without hesitation, feeling something in the world shift. Then the three go their separate ways, each to their own empty lives.

* * *

There are whispers of a new Dark Lord, and Harry Potter wants to scream. Hasn't the world had enough of death, of bloodshed? Isn't the horror of one war enough for a lifetime?

* * *

He spends most of his time holed up in a shabby apartment above a flower shop, in a small town outside of Glasgow. He left his relatives behind without so much as a goodbye, and he bought an apartment far enough away from his friends that he could use the distance as an excuse for turning down most invitations.

He works for the record store across the street in the evenings, puts on old soul and Motown and big band music inside the shop. He finds it soothing, in body and mind.

Draco Malfoy stops by on a cold November evening, snow swirling in the door after him. Harry hears the tinkling of a bell and looks up, not feeling surprise at being summoned but at who was being sent to do the summoning.

"Hiding, Potter?" In two words, Draco Malfoy manages to call to the surface every shameful feeling Harry has ever had, and anger replaces shame easily. Then it all fades, like water through his fingers. He just doesn't care anymore.

"Partly. Living," he responds, walking over to the door of the shop. He flips the sign from "Open" to "Closed" and turns back to his visitor. Malfoy's grey eyes are intense, staring at Harry from under long blonde locks.

"You and I both know you're not living, Potter." So much underneath those words that Harry could spend days contemplating them and still miss something. But he is right. Harry isn't living. He goes through the motions of a person who lives, but he could never get it right.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"Shacklebolt is recalling the Order." Harry wants to ask how Malfoy knows about the Order, but decides it doesn't really matter how, in the end. "The threats have escalated into killings, and the Ministry is blaming it on rogue Death Eaters."

"Are we sure it's not?"

"No. But he feels confident that it's more than that. He wants you involved. Snape is head of the Order." He pauses. "I'm going to be a double agent."

It makes sense. Snape will never be accepted as anything but Light after the outcome of the last war, but Malfoy still has his dark past, his family history, and his pariah status in the Wizarding World to help him infiltrate the new dark side. Harry doesn't want to have any part in it, but his blood is singing in his veins at the thought of a fight, the chance to avenge those lost in the last war dangling in front of him. It didn't matter that they would be fighting a different enemy. They were all the same to Harry.

"When's the first meeting?" he asks.

Malfoy smiles grimly. "Tuesday. I'll tell them to expect you at 7 o'clock." With that, Malfoy walks briskly to the door, pulls it open, and strides out into the night. Harry watches him until he disappears into the falling snow.

* * *

The idea of seeing what's left of the second war's resistance threatens to swallow Harry in darkness. He breathes deeply, staring at the kitchen table, listening to the soft chatter around him as people arrive at Grimmauld.

By the time he looks up again, the room is nearly full, and the memories not quite as daunting. There are more faces that he doesn't recognize in the crowd than those he does. A new army for a new war, he thinks bitterly.

Snape explains the purpose of the meeting, his words as clipped and acerbic as ever. Harry almost smiles, seeing some thirty-odd fully grown wizards cowering before the man. He catches sight of Malfoy, who seems to be enjoying the show as well, a smirk playing across his face.

Snape speaks to the group. "The new Dark Lord will not make the same mistakes Voldemort did. Be assured he will learn from the recent war. They have already begun to take over smaller cities instead of attacking arbitrarily, and they will work their way up to the larger communities."

Harry's mind drifts. He wonders why he wanted to be here so badly, when now he wants nothing to do with the war effort. He wants to go home and sleep until everything is over.

"—to infiltrate the ranks. We will have inside knowledge of when and where attacks will take place." Across the room, Malfoy's head bows slightly. Harry's stomach tightens – with concern? Worry? He doesn't know, but he hates it. He hates this.

The meeting is adjourned shortly after, and Harry escapes the clutches of the new Order members with some difficulty. He is Harry Potter, after all. He apparates to an alley at the end of his street and walks toward the flower shop. There is a shadow sitting on his stoop, and though he knows he should be alarmed, he's not.

Malfoy looks up as he approaches and rises gracefully to his feet. "I leave tomorrow."

Harry nods. "Snap?" he asks. He puts the key in the lock and opens the door, Malfoy trailing behind.

They play exploding snap, but it doesn't clear Harry's mind the way it once did. He is tense, torn between bone-crushing weariness at the thought of what this war will bring and all-consuming anger directed towards nothing and everything. He reaches to put a card down on the pile and Malfoy stops his hand with one of his own.

Harry looks up, breath catching in his throat. His chest aches and his nose is burning, and he doesn't understand what's going on. With Malfoy, with him, with the world. It is all a big jumble of hate and death and pleasedon'tgo.

"Harry."

Harry makes a choking sound and his vision blurs. He slumps forward, emotions crashing over him and drowning him and he makes no effort to fight his way back out. Why? What was the point anymore? It never ends.

He feels arms come around him and hears Malfoy's silken voice murmuring in his ear. He wonders how they got here, two broken young men in a rundown apartment, embracing over a game of cards. He thinks of how much has been taken from them; their childhood, their family, their hopes and dreams, their happiness, their friends, their innocence. Harry wants to rage at God, though a part of him doesn't believe there is a God anymore. How could any God let this happen to the world, to his children?

Malfoy pulls away and Harry tries to swallow his tears, ashamed, apologies on his lips. Malfoy shakes his head and Harry stays silent. He closes his eyes as he takes breath after shuddering breath, feeling the hysteria fade slowly. He feels a cool hand on his face, fingers wiping his tears away, and Harry leans into the palm, craving it's touch.

Harry looks up and sees shiny grey eyes gazing back at him. "You don't deserve this," Malfoy says softly.

Harry looks away. The hand falls and Harry has to stop himself from whimpering at the loss. He hears Malfoy stand and begin to move away.

"Malfoy—" he blurts.

The other man turns around. Harry doesn't know what he wants to say. That he's sorry the war ruined Malfoy's life? That he shouldn't have that haunted look in his eyes? That he should never have to take this kind of risk again? But isn't Harry doing the same, reliving the same nightmare? It isn't fair.

"I'm sorry," he says instead, eyes falling to the floor. There's nothing more he can say.

"It's life, Potter. It's war," Malfoy says. Harry isn't sure if he's talking about Harry's breakdown, about Malfoy's looming spying assignment, or about the unfairness of the world in general. He realizes it doesn't matter, it's all the same thing.

"Be careful," Harry whispers. How unexpected that he's come to care about Draco Malfoy, of all people, but care he does. And he doesn't want to lose him to this.

He looks up, sees Malfoy smirk slightly. "Of course. I'm a Slytherin, Potter." Harry smiles, laughs a little at such a typical Malfoy response. He is still smiling softly when Malfoy leaves.

* * *

There are screams and fires and spell light flying past him in every direction. He's never seen anything like it, not even in the war. Well, the last war. He still has a hard time accepting that he's in a whole new one now.

The battle takes place in Bath, where the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters (Harry knows that's not what they're called, but he can't be bothered to remember their soubriquet – they are all cut from the same cloth anyhow) are trying to gain control of the region. This is their first major attempt.

Harry ducks another curse and swears quietly, scampering behind a nearby building. There are Dark Wizards, Aurors, and Order members running up and down the alleyways trying to kill each other, all while muggles go about their daily lives. The invisibility spells cast by both sides are holding, but Harry wonders how much they can take. Especially when muggles keep getting caught in the crossfire.

He catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and whirls around, wand out. "Sectumsempra!" he yells as the black-robed wizard raises his wand.

Blood spurts and Harry only has a second to confirm he's dead before he's off again, running toward the sound of a woman screaming in pain.

The would-be Death Eaters end up winning control over Bath and the surrounding towns, and the Light suffers many losses. Harry doesn't ask who. He doesn't want to know anyone's names anymore.

* * *

Ron and Hermione are murdered in March.

From the bits and pieces of conversation he remembers, he's put together that they were out to dinner, on a date, just the two of them. In walked a half dozen of the Dark Lord's followers and the entire restaurant was slaughtered. Harry knows over twenty people were killed, but he also knows that Ron and Hermione were the targets.

He doesn't remember much about the weeks after. People visit, feed him, bathe him. He wants to die, but they won't let him. He sleeps. He dreams. He cries. He finds the answer to his question of God's existence every time he remembers his best friends.

* * *

With May comes the news that the army is moving north. Towards Glasgow.

Harry accepts this. He knows why they chose his city. He also knows he will fight them wherever they go.

His doorbell rings, and Harry grabs his wand and heads to the window. He sees a hooded figure waiting outside the door on the street, and he knows immediately who it is. He buzzes him in.

Harry heads back to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. He hears the front door shut, then footsteps come his way. They stop behind him.

"Why are you here?" he asks. He turns around.

Malfoy's face is tired, his cheeks sunken and the rings under his eyes dark. It makes his high cheekbones stand out sharply.

"They're coming for you," he says simply.

Harry turns back around to the kettle. "I know." Because he did know. Learning from past mistakes or not, Dark Lords seemed to be drawn to killing Harry Potter.

Harry hears Malfoy walk to the table, hears a chair scrape against the tile. The kitchen is silent. The kettle whistles and Harry brings over two cups of tea.

"Why are you here?" Harry asks again quietly, looking directly at the other man.

Malfoy has his tea cupped between his hands, warming them. He stares into it, looking for answers. Harry wonders what he has been through with the Dark Lord. He wonders if Malfoy will ever be able to move on once all this is over. He wonders why he cares.

"I want you to leave. Go away somewhere and stay safe. They're not coming to Glasgow to take it over. They're coming for you. Every single one of them is going to be combing the city and killing people until they find you. And then they will kill you, too." Malfoy says all of this with such fervor that Harry is taken aback.

"Malfoy, I know. I'm not going to let them kill anyone," Harry says calmly, sipping his tea. Malfoy looks surprised, then angry, as he pieces it together. Harry sees the imminent explosion and plunges onward.

"I'm not going to sit around and watch the muggles die, and I'm not going to run off and let them massacre the city until they realize I'm not even here, either. I'll go to them before the fighting starts and give myself up, and no one will get hurt." He can see the fire growing in Malfoy's eyes but ignores it. "This isn't Voldemort. There is no prophecy. Anyone can kill him. He's not even all that powerful, from what you've said. He's just better at strategy. You guys will beat him. You don't need me."

Malfoy stares at him, color high on his cheekbones and teeth clenched. Harry can almost feel the heat radiating off the other man. He reaches out to touch Malfoy's arm. Malfoy jerks it back, spilling his tea. He kicks his chair away and storms out of the room, and Harry hears glass breaking. He has half a mind to be angry that Malfoy has the nerve to destroy his property, but lets it go. He understands.

He stands and follows the sounds of destruction into his sad excuse for a sitting room. Malfoy has shattered the mirror over the fireplace and his hand is bleeding freely. Harry walks over to him and gently takes his hand, assessing the damage.

Whispering a spell, Harry watches as the skin closes seamlessly. He cleans the blood off with another word. Then Harry gently lifts Malfoy's hand to his lips. He holds it there lightly, closing his eyes and taking a deep inhale, learning Malfoy's scent. Dark and earthy, full of worry and rage and determination. Harry presses a soft kiss to the knuckles, then softly lets the hand drop.

He opens his eyes to find Malfoy's face contorted with anguish, lips pressed tightly together and eyes saying a thousand things in a thousand different languages, if only Harry could understand them.

Harry cups the other man's face with his hands, looks into his eyes.

"I know why you're angry. I'm sorry. But I can't stand by and watch him kill innocent people, Draco."

"You're such a Gryffindor," Malfoy says ungraciously. Harry laughs softly. His amusement fades as quickly as it came, seeing the sorrow Malfoy can't hide.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to the other man's, breathing the same air, drawing each other in. Malfoy speaks.

"I don't want you to die."

Harry's chest tightens and he closes his eyes, searching for the words. "My best friends are gone. I have no family. My whole life has been nothing but loss and killing. I am tired of it all, Draco. I'm ready for it to end. And if I can save people by sacrificing myself, I will. I have nothing left."

Malfoy tilts his head up slightly to look into Harry's eyes. "You have me," he murmurs. Harry is sure his heart stops.

And suddenly they are kissing. Malfoy tastes like he smells, like damp earth and hardened resolve, and there is a softness to his mouth that is something like tenderness. Their lips move together, dancing to a tune they've known their whole lives but never recognized. Their tongues touch and electric shocks run down Harry's body, making him shiver. Malfoy moans, a sad sound, and Harry breaks the kiss, pulling him tight against his body.

Malfoy is shaking, and Harry holds him tight. His mind and his heart are oceans of pain and sorrow, and he knows Malfoy feels the same. Again, he wonders how they got here. Gryffindor and Slytherin, Half-blood and Pure-blood, Good and Evil, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. He wonders if they could have worked, in a different world. He stops wondering, because it hurts too much.

They step away from each other and Malfoy visibly composes himself.

"Be careful, Potter. If you find another way, don't stick around to be the hero." He takes a steadying breath, turns to the door. "I must go. Duty calls."

"Good luck, Draco," Harry says, wishing he could say more. Three words isn't enough, but they are the only three words he has.

* * *

Harry remembers locking his front door, a pointless but comforting gesture. He won't be returning, after all. He remembers walking down the street, making no effort at concealment. He remembers apparating to the south of the city, where he knows the dark army will rendezvous before the attack. He remembers the looks of shock and recognition on the faces of the enemy, remembers the pain he felt when they clouted him around the head, the darkness as he blacked out.

He doesn't remember how he got where he is now, his makeshift cell with walls of dirt and stone, almost like he is in a hole underground dug out especially for him. He doesn't know if his strategy worked, if he really saved anyone at all. He doesn't know what is going to happen now, though his mind gleefully provides countless gruesome scenarios, all of which end with his untimely (timely) death.

Time loses meaning. It feels like months have passed, but it could have been only days. He paces, cries, screams, thinks, sleeps, eats the food and water that magically appear every so often.

By the time he is rescued, Harry feels like he has lost his mind, and the Order members have a difficult time removing him from his new 'home'. They end up spelling him unconscious. He is taken to St. Mungo's to recuperate.

* * *

He learns of Draco Malfoy's death some days later, when the doctors feel he is stable enough to hear news about the war. Through reports, he learns that it was his fault, that Draco told the Dark Lord not to attack Glasgow, they'd already gotten what they came for. Draco was imprisoned and sentenced to death for his insolence. They never found the body.

The Dark Lord did in fact attack Glasgow. The city went up in flames, and thousands were killed before the Order managed to control the damage.

Harry hangs his head; In shame, in despair, in agony, it's all the same now.

* * *

He returns to the Order as soon as they will let him, and he acts the diligent soldier to Snape's general. He follows orders and goes on raids and reports back to his leader, all the while picking up tidbits of information.

He knows where the Dark Lord's stronghold is, and he knows the enchantments surrounding it, and he knows how it is guarded. That is all he needs.

* * *

Harry plays the hero one more time. He knows this time he won't be alive to see himself fail, and maybe that's been the key all along; he cannot succeed and live. Every time he wakes up to find that somehow, he survived, someone else has died. But the Boy Who Lived will not live this time.

He breaks through the enchantments, incapacitates the guards, and finds his way to the Dark Lord's chambers, fueled by pure fury. He knows his luck will run out, he isn't made for stealth and secrecy, but it will last long enough to get the job done.

He kills the Dark Lord. The duel is simple. Smart, he might be, but the Dark Lord is not as powerful as Harry Potter, nor as filled with hate. Harry casts an Avada Kedavra, powered by all of the fear and loss and anger he feels every second of every day, and the Dark Lord is dead. He thinks, as he hears footsteps pounding in his direction, that they should have let him do this a long time ago. If they all hadn't been so concerned with keeping him alive, if they'd just let him do what he needed to do and die, he would have been able to prevent so much loss.

Harry sinks to his knees as the doors behind him slam open. He feels spells cast at him, hundreds, thousands of them, pain everywhere, and he dies.

* * *

When Harry realizes he is alive, he almost screams. He yanks the tubes out of his arm, dresses in the clothes on the end of his hospital bed, and walks out of St. Mungo's, ignoring the doctors and nurses and security guards trying to talk sense into him.

He apparates home, if he can call it a home. The street is deserted, but the buildings still stand, sad and cold. He unlocks his door, slams it behind him. Stands in the hallway, unsure and furious and feeling so, so wretched. He slides down the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, and puts his head down, breathing deep breaths that aren't his to breathe.

Lost in his despair, he almost doesn't hear the footsteps coming towards him, and when he does, he doesn't care enough to look up. When they stop in front of him, Harry sees the expensive shoes, the tailored pants, and he smiles.

"Snap?"

_End._


End file.
